Written.

Wednesday, 29 February 2012

Swallow

“Cigarette?” And he offers me one, knowing that I am out of them and I am standing near him, struggling a bit due to his skirt.

My throat is a bit sore and he keeps smoking and he is in platforms, laughing at something he mentioned earlier but instead I sink it at the cross dresser, who seems to be my height, but feels too tiny.

I watched him in class, sometimes sitting cross legged, as he would act and I would look at how bright his lips were and how he would play female better than anyone else or how he would apply lipstick wherever the cigarettes would snatch the colour away.

I wondered if I took that one cigarette and took a puff, would I be the one to snatch the colour in that area.

I’ve been told who poofs where, I’ve seen some on the street, but I never had anyone right in front of me and someone who would still wear those platforms and manage to actually have sex with girls in a bright blue sweater and make out sometimes trying to be private. I had been looking for a carton of orange juice and he had a trolley.

I stopped right in front of it, wondering if I should identify him as female or male in those platforms of his.

“Hi, Jamie.” And he smiles and I always see him smoking in my head or both of us sitting on the stairs, not saying anything, sometimes I tap a tune with my fingers, sometimes he does.

“Hi, Brian.” I mimic and that’s it.

That’s where all our conversations went.

Besides a few times, when he asked me what I thought of such and such author or poet. Once he bragged about The Pixies and Sonic Youth, while chewing on an unlit cigarette, the wind playing with the hair, stealing the red lips for itself. Brian keeps talking about how complicated to apply nail varnish is and I try to point out the red in his hairs and in the end my fingers are entangled in the red of his and my fingers contain it as a sin and his hair is black again and his accent enchants London.

It’s too tense when he asks me to choose his first pair of high heels.

I stare at him wobbling, holding onto my arm and laughing at me, so much taller.

It’s too tense, as I grab hold of his hands in that small store which doesn’t kick him out and I swallow my saliva, still my own.

Before a tongue touches my own.

On the stairs when we smoke.

He hurls himself at me, he has a cock and it’s against my own, he is in his new heels and the legs intertwine and I steal his colour for my own.

-

It's called Swallow as even when I had my off phase of Placebo I always had Swallow, Swallow is I guess one of THE Placebo songs for me and Placebo in general is a special band for me, I've seen them live and I loved them, Christ, I still do and now I'm just rediscovering a great dead band, fuck me, let's all unite and buy Molko some drugs and I miss the whole sex appeal he had and it's a shame how he just tore everything off.

Writing just seems to be the form where examples are the simplest and situations the realest.

My frustration is the fuel which my characters face and just limiting the value of my writing to good prose is Kubrick cutting the end of A Clockwork Orange to make a shallow movie about violence.

My work is my anger and everyone's anger at ignorance at those who will limit anyone to the background.

The further work is not about love, love is the aid to get us through society which we've created, born into and have to struggle with every day.

And love is the fuel, the fuel to the anger which I have to bear for being queer and deviant.

And I am not a love story. I am not something to cry over. I am something which should make you realize if you are at a privileged position that you should make a change, if you are discriminated, that you are not alone, that we should all have this fuel and should never just be limited to love.

Because our anger is valid.

We became our anger, so that the love will not only nourish us now, but later when all is done and we are no longer deviant to a society who hates itself.

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Fanfiction legal disclaimer

I do not own any of the character, band or other names based off real persons and groups; they served only as inspiration for my characters in the stories, whose rights I own. The works published herein and elsewhere by me are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to real life events is merely coincidental. No libel or slander is intended.